


The Flame Haired Girl

by EarthGirl3015



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 17:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18168077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthGirl3015/pseuds/EarthGirl3015
Summary: Magic, blood, madness, love





	The Flame Haired Girl

The morning has just broken when Annie awoke. She sat up slowly, blinking in the light of a new day, and instinctively rubbed her arms to try and stop the spread of the goosebumps on her arms. It was cold down here in the cellar, but then it had to be. After all, this was where the fine wines – _which Annie was not allowed to drink_ – and the salted meat – _which Annie was not allowed to eat_ – were stored. She had been told of the punishment which would befall her if she touched any of her surrounding food without the Sorcerer’s express permission. The very thought of it chilled her to her bones.

 

Glancing towards the two other pallets, she saw that Mags and Sae were already gone. Annie sighed in the cool morning air. That meant they had tried to give her more sleep again, which was kind of them, but it could get them in trouble with the Sorcerer. He was very particular about how he was to be served in the mornings, and Mags was getting old, and didn’t always put things in the right places. Besides, the Sorcerer seemed to prefer it when Annie was in the room. Mags and Sae always exchanged concerned looks when he called for her to serve him late at night. Annie understood what they feared the Sorcerer might do to her, but it would never happen, despite how much she wished for it. She was mad. Completely mad.

 

She was only useful for serving him, cleaning his floors or – if she was lucky – his shoes. She often wished he would look at her with even half of the love she felt for him. After all, he had taken her away from a terrible life condemned to begging in the streets. The Gods above only knew what he had seen in her to take her in.

 

Shaking herself from her melancholy thoughts, she hurried to dress, putting on her cleanest dress and spit-washing her shoes to make them gleam in the early morning light. She skipped up the steps two at a time and made her way to the kitchen.

Stopping just in the doorway the smell of fresh bread filled Annie’s nostrils, making her smile and want to start dancing. No matter what was cooking in the kitchen, it always smelled of fresh bread near Sae. It was a relaxing smell, the kind that vaguely reminded Annie of something, a happy memory that was struggling to reach the surface. As with every day, she let the half-remembered memory fade and instead concentrated on the tray in front of her. There was the small kettle that held the very-very hot coffee ( _mustn’t spill that, the Sorcerer will be ever so cross_ ) and the cup that went with it, the toast ( _with exactly ten grams of butter, not nine or eleven_ ), bacon ( _two rashers_ ), eggs ( _runny in the middle, solid around the outside_ ) and the cutlery ( _fork on the left side, prongs facing north, knife on the right side, pointy end also facing north_ ). Sae, busy bustling around, weighing ingredients for another of her tasty dishes, barely had time to say good morning before Annie carefully walked out of the kitchen, balancing the tray almost reverently on her palms.

 

She climbed the ninety-three steps up the tower to the Sorcerer’s bedroom, paused to hear the usual sounds ( _the splash of the water basin, the footsteps as he approached his desk_ ), took a deep breath to calm her throbbing heart, and knocked carefully balancing the tray as she did so.

“Enter,” came the curt reply. Annie opened the door.

 

The room looked smaller than it actually was, mostly because of the sheer amount of desks and tables in it. The large bed didn’t help either ( _Annie was careful never to look fully at the bed, the sight of it made her turn red_ ). One desk in the far corner, which never got any sunlight, always smelled foul ( _the one time she had offered to clean it, he had slapped her. She had returned that night on her knees and spent a full two hours begging him to forgive her. She was so happy when he did, with a wave of his hand_ ), another closer to the light had lots of glass containers on it, some of them half full with rainbow liquids ( _after the dark desk she had never offered to go near the desks again, but she couldn’t help admiring the sparkles of the glass_ ), another with some sharp implements on it – none of which looked very helpful, but she never questioned him again – and finally a small desk near the window, in full view of the sun, held a plant pot. White roses bloomed there all year round.

 

There was one in full bloom now. Annie instantly stood straighter. If she was really, really good – and quiet and attentive – maybe he’d cut one for her. He had before, as a token of his generosity, often with a speech reminding her of how lucky she was. She always whole heartedly agreed with him, and carefully dried out the flowers and placed them under her pillow. Their sickly sweet scent never seemed to fade. Annie loved to be surrounded by that scent, especially in the middle of the night, when she touched herself. It was the only way she could be with the man she loved completely.

 

“Is there something you want to get on with, girl, or are you having one of your ridiculous episodes?” the voice of the Sorcerer jerked her out of her daydreams – a hot blush filled her cheeks, she was always red when she was around him – as she stepped smartly to the table that stood next to the desk with the white roses on it. She kept silent. She was always supposed to be silent, unless addressed and then expressly told she could speak. She waited for a sign that her love was ready to be served. The Sorcerer sighed, then took a folded napkin from him pocket and shook it out.

“Go on. Serve me,” his voice leering just slightly at the end of his sentence. Annie’s heart leapt and she had to carefully place the tray down on the table or it would fall from her shaking hands.

She placed the plate on the table first ( _toast must always face the window, bacon directly in front of him, eggs on the left_ ), then the cutlery ( _fork on the left, knife on the right_ ), the kettle ( _put a hand cloth down so no coffee can spill onto the pristine table cloth_ ), and the cup ( _handle must always face the right_ ). She stepped back, her hands cupped in front of her, head bowed while she waited for any more orders.

“Pour for me,” he demanded, no leer to his voice this time, only a grim sort of amusement. She tried to hide the way her shoulders stiffened, but she knew that he had seen. Her love saw everything.

Slowly she reached for the kettle. Although the grip on the handle was leather, somehow the steam or the heat of the coffee itself always seemed to travel up to the handle, making it almost uncomfortably hot for her to hold. Not only that, but she was never good at pouring, and he knew it. The first time she had spilled the coffee on the white table cloth, he had backhanded her so hard the bruise lasted for a week. Since then he had demanded she catch any more spilled drops. With her hand.

She didn’t know why he chose to test her so, but she assumed he was testing to see how strong she was, how much pain she could endure. The fact that she had been so long in love with him, yet completely ignored, ought to be enough of a testament to her strength in the face of heart-wrenching torment. Yet she knew she could handle the scalding coffee ( _but that didn’t make the first few drops any less painful_ ).

She got a good grip around the handle, holding her left hand under the spout as she moved it towards the cup. A drop fell onto her hand and a quick bloom of _red-black-pain_ shot through her nerves and she couldn’t hold back a _scarlet-red-gasp_. She chanced a glance through her eyelashes and saw him staring at her, a gleam in his _snake-ice-blue_ eyes. She quickly redirected the spout and managed to get the coffee pouring steadily into the cup. She had to catch two more drops when she lifted it away, and more _red-red-black-pain_ gathered in her hand, but she acted as if it didn’t bother her. She kept her palm up, holding the drops of hot coffee in them, so that she wouldn’t spill them on the floor. He looked her over once more, and then turned his attention to his food, lifting the cutlery and beginning to eat. She stood there, silent as a statue, one hand held out as if offering a gift, for at least three minutes before he turned, with a huff of annoyance and instructed, “Get out.”

Her head bowed, “Yes, Sorcerer Snow,” Annie whispered as she turned away.

Keeping her palm elevated, she left as quietly as she could, wilting as she walked away from the door. The pain in her hand was nothing compared to the ache in heart that there was no new white rose to add to her collection.

She wandered down slowly in the direction of the kitchen, so that Mags and Sae could take a look at her palm.


End file.
